Posted on: Monday, July 19, 2004

ABOUT MEN
Game lets all fantasies remain real

By Michael Tsai
Advertiser Staff Writer

Sometime within the next two days, I will become the proud owner of a 6-foot-11, 210-pound Serbian teenager named Nemanja Aleksandrov.

Before you get on the horn with Interpol, let me explain.

My buddy Mark and I are scheduled to hold the 2004 MMBA Supplemental Draft tonight at 7 sharp. Factoring in our traditional 48-hour procrastination window, that likely means Wednesday. Regardless, since it's my turn to pick first in this modified-fantasy league draft, I'm publically announcing my intention to select Aleksandrov, the Serbian Kevin Garnett.

I realize this bit of information (and all news involving the Mike and Mark — Mark and Mike? — Basketball Association) means little to anyone outside the league. The league being, of course, Mark and me.

But such is the beauty of the game we invented one humid evening 16 years ago. It's highly subjective. Every tiny action is subject to intense debate. And none of it means anything.

It's the perfect guy game.

The game, developed back when I thought "fantasy league" meant Isabella Rossellini and Susanna Hoffs playing 1-on-1 in Chuck Taylor sneaks, is what's now known as a "keeper" league.

Mark and I each have two imaginary college and pro teams. Twice a year we "draft" real-life college and foreign players, then keep or cut them according to an arcane set of protocols that may or may not include slapping our foreheads, drinking a six-pack of grape soda and praying to Red Auerbach.

Unlike the old Strat-o-Matic board games or the new, online fantasy leagues, our game downplays objective statistical data in favor of more visceral measurements. Whatever ticks off the other guy is good. Very good.

Once, Mark drafted me, intending to make me a practice dummy for Alonzo Mourning.

At times, our rivalry has bordered on the obsessive. I have boxes of old school notes, meeting minutes, paychecks and food wrappers graffitied with rosters and draft projections. I spent my entire sophomore year in college paralyzed by the existential question: Is Jerrod Mustaf's inability to grab more than four rebounds a game proof of the vast indifference of the universe?

Of course, the game is more than neurotic entertainment. It's a link that's kept my best friend and I from drifting too far apart as our big grown-up interests and relationships and commitments have nudged us along different paths.

At my mother's funeral a few years ago, it was Mark who offered the most comforting words — that Dirk Nowitzki couldn't guard a pancake, and that I needed to put down the crack pipe if I thought he'd ever trade Tracy McGrady.

And while I may never forgive him for bamboozling me into trading Jason Kidd the night of my bachelor party, I grudgingly admit it was a clever move.

That's life and our game.

Reach Michael Tsai at 535-2461 or mtsai@honoluluadvertiser.com.